Star Maps
by infernallyminded
Summary: Two pairs of eyes followed her: one solely within her dreams, another which she didn't even notice. They seemed to have possessed her soul, trickling into her daily thoughts. On the eve of the battle, Hermione both gained and lost something, leaving her unable to go back to how things used to be.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I've started another story (I am in the middle of editing my next chapter for my _Peeta Mellarco _story) because the plot bunny would not leave me. I will not reveal anything, just know that it will get a little intense as the chapters go by. Swearing is included within this opening chapter. Sex will be included within future chapters. Please do not read if that makes you feel uncomfortable. **

**Otherwise, enjoy the prologue :)**

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**Prologue**

The sweeping marble arches shook with the impact of the powerful hexes being thrown at the exterior of the Hogwarts castle. The heady, metallic scent of ash and blood permeated the air, forcing Hermione to cover her nose with the sleeve of her tattered, bloodstained jumper. Fine powder fell from the ancient stone roof, floating into Hermione's eyes as she dashed past a pair of duelling wizards. All manner of shouting could be heard bouncing off the stone walls; deep and tortured, shrill and petrified. The girl's heart – usually prone to self-sacrificing compassion – was encased within the cold grip of numbness. She did not even freeze when she saw the bleeding, decimated corpse of Lavender Brown as she raced passed it. To Hermione, that girl lying broken on the ground, throat ripped to bloody strips, was not Lavender Brown: fellow seventh year student and former dorm mate. No, Lavender Brown was just another shattered, unnamed corpse. On the night of the battle, one could not waste time on the dead when there were lives depending on you.

Hermione sped through the hallway, dodging another considerably potent curse fired by a caster behind her. She threw an equally powerful curse over her shoulder, sweat dripping down her hairline.

"RON!" She screamed realising that she could no longer see the familiar mop of red hair beside her. She spun on the spot, aiming another curse at an ex-Slytherin student she spotted forming the wand movements of the Crucio spell.

"RON! RON, WHERE ARE YOU?" Hermione cried, throat burning as she attempted to be heard over the sharp notes of battle. The girl shook with fear intermingled with adrenaline. The formidable cocktail rushed through her veins, placing her in a state of hyper awareness. _Where was Ron? _

"_RON? RON!" _Her voice broke as she continued to race through the hallway, scanning the duelling bodies around her. By now, Hermione had reached the end of the hall where it met with the grand staircase she once stood on, wearing her elegant ball robes. Tonight, she stood on the bloodstained marble staircase as a bleak parody of that one night so long ago. Her tattered, muddy clothing was blood-spattered and smelling like burnt flesh. Strands of hair stuck to her sweaty face. On the level below, Hermione could not spy Harry or Ron amongst the coiling bodies of the child soldiers. So, on she ran, calling out the names of her best friends, heart constricting with every additional step she took.

By the time she reached the juncture by the prefects' reserved bathroom, Hermione instinctually realised that something was off. She gripped the wand tightly within her grasp, feeling the familiar groves of the rose and thorn pattern embossed on her vine handle. The west wall casted a long shadow down the corridor as the Gryffindor darted behind a corner, willing herself to stay silent. If she did not know of the origins of the pulsing multi-coloured hues she saw within the glass window, she would find them beautiful.

A snide chuckle reverberated across the empty junction. The sharp tap of metal boot trimmings made Hermione's blood turn cold.

"Come ou', disgusting lil' _mudblood!" _Yaxley's deep, harrowing was soft and gentle – contradictory to his chose words. Hermione swallowed, desperately weighing her options.

_To run? I could slowly creep my way back into the previous hallway – or better yet, perhaps cast the invisibility charm for only a few moments. I just need a few moments. _

Yaxely's voice grew sharper, and Hermione could almost imagine his black eyes glinting manically, his dirty, grubby nails caked with blood and mud.

"I'll give ya one more chance, mudblood _whore_. Show yerself 'n maybe I won't be too hard on ya…" The man's shadow grew as he slunk forward, closer and closer towards Hermione. Hermione knew that Yaxley may have sounded like an uneducated fool, but his destructive power and lack of self-restraint rendered him quite dangerous. He could overpower her in strength alone. If it were to be a fair duel, Hermione knew she could hold her own – but when are Deatheaters ever known to be fair? It was three against one. It was a death notice. Hermione took a deep breath. She could not run away as the perimeters were surrounded, but that did not mean she would go down without a fight.

She slowly stepped into the light, shadows still covering half of her brow. Her hands shook but she raised her chin in defiance. She did not waste time in aggressive banter, instead choosing to fire a violent curse towards her attackers. "_INFLAMMO," _she cried, watching in satisfaction as Yaxley screamed. He was surrounded by a floating dome of flames, his skin beginning to blister and melt. Hermione began to perform the three-point wand movements needed for the _incandesco _curse – one that would heighten the suffering of her attacker – but a voice broke her concentration.

"_HERMIONE!" _Desperation and blood curdling fear laced the voice she was so used to hearing bubbling with laughter or sharp with sarcasm. Momentarily forgetting her situation, Hermione spun, eyes searching for her best friend – her _love. _And standing there, surrounded by a halo of white light, stood Ron.

_He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. _

"_You're alive," _she whispered, eyes beginning to water.

"_CRUCIO!" _A garbled cry flew from behind her, pulling Hermione from her trance. Ron, who was only seconds ago beaming with relief and acute joy, now was splayed across the floor, body twitching. His desperate voice pierced the air, puncturing the very recesses of Hermione's heart. She felt her stomach drop.

"_RON!"_ A second, masculine voice joined within her own, crying out in despair.

_Harry. _

Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped Hermione's throat, blocking her air passage. The scent of rotting gums filled her nostrils, making her eyes water. She tore at the immobile hand at her throat, gasping and choking, kicking her feet against Yaxley's shins.

"_HERMIONE!" _Harry shouted. Hermione watched as blood dribbled down his face from the cut above her eyebrow. _Strange, _Hermione thought, _that I would notice such trivial thing like a cut in such dire circumstances. _

"Lookie 'ere, it's the boy who lived, 'is bloody traitor friend and their little Mudblood slut – all together inna room." Yaxley chortled. From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed two bulking figures tracing the perimeters of the corridor, as if feeling for something hidden within the walls.

_What are they - _

"_LEAVE HER ALONE, YOU BASTARD!" _Ron's voice cracked with fear and tears began to bubble within his throat. He sprinted towards his girlfriend only to skid to a stop when Yaxley raised a rusty pocket knife up to the soft skin of Hermione's neck. She could feel the man's lips curl into a grin by her ear. Black patches began to fill her vision. She could feel his hot breath fan across her face as he tutted, he moved his lips closer towards her ear. "The blood traitor is upset that I'm touching his Mudblood plaything." Hermione ignored his comment, keeping her blurry vision directed upon the moving shapes behind Harry and Ron.

Yaxley suddenly took a deep breath, grinning at the younger Weasley boy. "Mhhmm, I canna' smell her Mudblood cherry – no wonder why you want 'er so bad." Hermione stiffened when she felt the blade of the knife dig lightly into her skin, clenching her teeth as she felt the bead of glistening blood roll down the column of her neck. Ron roared, veering towards the older Deatheater – only to be captured around the waist by Harry. The boy who lived had tears trailing down his face despite his static expression.

Yaxley snarled menacingly. "Step back, _boy, _or I will rip your whore's throat to shreds."

Hermione was numb to the sharp sting of the blade, so close to piercing an important artery near her jugular. She was numb to everything apart from the twisting shadows growing larger and larger behind her two best friends. Behind the two most important boys in her life, both of whom were risking the safety of future generations only to save her.

She knew what those shadows foreshadowed, and yet, she stood still. She stood there, in the overbearing arms of a Deatheater, staring at the blinding explosions outside of the stained glass window. She stood still and silent when she documented the grief-filled face of her boyfriend, the frightened and tortured face of her brother. She stood still and silent. It was only when she noticed the peculiar wand movements of the now hulking bodies standing behind her best friends that she knew she had to do. All sound muffled to a single, ambient drone within her ear canal. Hermione felt as if she were underwater – as if she were floating and all of her actions were carried out in slow motion.

She glanced towards Harry and Ron, sending each of them a fond, loving smile. Too soon, however, her lips curved downwards. Her eyes scanned up towards the marble ceiling where patterns were carved into the stone. Both boys followed her gaze, brows meeting in the middle as they attempted to work out her plan. It only took a few precious seconds for them to realise, but by then…it was too late.

The world rushed back towards Hermione. Despite this she could only mutely hear Ron and Harry screaming.

_NO! _They chanted.

_HERMIONE, NO – PLEASE DON'T DO THIS! _

_HERMIONE!_

Pointing her wand towards the large marble arch of the corridor, Hermione whispered the last word she was to speak: _"Reducto."_

As the ceiling began to fall, effectively knocking out the death eaters behind Harry and Ron as trapping Hermione within the corridor with Yaxley, she felt a giggle rise up from the pit of her stomach. _Isn't it funny,_ she thought to herself, _that I am too meet my doom via a spell that I learnt at the beginning of third year? _

The desperate, tortured cries of her best friends was the last things Hermione heard before her world went black.

* * *

Hermione swam between the pools of consciousness and blissful darkness. She drifted between the worlds, a ship commander without a proper map. She felt no guilt in declaring that she preferred the darkness. In that peaceful void, there was a strange warmth that instigated a sense of intense joy within her. When the sea grew choppy, she would choke on tiny, unconnected recollections – a jagged red scar, the smell of freshly cut grass, ink-splattered fingers, the acidic scent of rotting flesh, a mop of red hair, strange popping candy that felt like tiny electric bolts on her tongue…

Flashes of images – _sensations – _filled her mind, overwhelming her until she retreated back into the darkness. Hermione knew that something was wrong – that she had somewhere to be and something to do. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember. If she were to be honest with herself, she didn't really care either, for she was _tired. _Not in the way that could be fixed with a long nap – no, Hermione carved darkness. Silence. Warmth.

She was not strong enough to resist the offering.

And so, she floated.

* * *

"Granger?"

Hermione internally flinched at the sound of a voice, willing herself to slip back into her blank darkness. She began to feel a prickling pain across the heavy expanse of her…her _what? _She was nothing. She was air. She was blackness.

"_Granger?" _The voice pulled her out of her bliss once more. A burning pain began to throb like ripples across the expanse of her skin. It multiplied by the second, reaching a climax where she was sure her skin was melting off of her bones. She wanted to scream, but it felt as if she were drugged – unable to escape from her phantom chains. Mutterings within an indistinguishable language – not at all English – was heard. Delicate lilts and elongated vowels were all that Hermione was able to pick up on as the fire veered to increasing heights within her. Another voice, a little higher than the first, joined in – seemingly in argument.

Hermione yearned for her darkness.

_If only she could scream. _

Suddenly, she felt herself being angled slightly up and something warm touched her lips. The heady scent of musk and something indistinguishable filled the air. From the smooth object ran a metallic tasting liquid. Unable to move, she felt it dribble down her throat. It was then that she noticed that the liquid possessed a sweet overtone – like sugar, cinnamon and the expensive red wine her father once drank during a holiday in France. With every drop that floated down her throat, Hermione felt herself strengthen. The burning pain – although still raging through her body – did not feel as if it were going to burn her alive.

Her eyes flickered open and she was greeted by two silvery-blue eyes framed by a halo of orange-gold light. Those eyes seemed as if they were able to delve into the very depths of Hermione's soul – able to crack open the deepest thoughts, beliefs and experiences she kept hidden from the world.

_Those eyes…_

Hermione felt the blackness once again take over her conscious state – but this time, she fought against it. Those eyes demanded that she stay there, with them. As is the terrible irony of life, Hermione could not win this fight. Weak, tired and overwhelmed, she once again submitted to the blackness.

Once more, she floated between worlds. Once again, she was map less, but printed up within the darkened sky was the shape of two, bright blue eyes – formed by the amassing of hundreds of faraway stars. Hermione did not know where she was going, but she felt protected underneath the gaze of those eyes.

And so, she floated.

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**So, what did you think? I hope you guys like it - I can't wait to get into the next few chapters! **


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters mentioned. This is purely for fun. **

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**Three weeks later**

"_She's waking up." _

The rustle of material filled her ears, and the steady electrical hum rose in volume.

"_Miss Granger?" _

Hermione's head throbbed, as did her body; bruised, broken. Her throat felt dry, as if she hadn't drank anything for a long time. Her skin felt hot – uncomfortably so. She longed for the darkness, once more.

"_Miss Granger, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?" _The voice called out again, smooth yet demanding. A masculine voice, authoritative in tone.

Hermione groaned, flinching at the sharp pain pulsing within her chest. The echo of many rushing footsteps skidding across the tiles reverberated across the space. She felt a cool hand rest against her forehead, tracing its way across to the junction of her neck and shoulders.

"_Temperature is normal, albeit a little high." _

More voices filled the space, the volume of the murmur ever increasing. Hermione felt the cool, rippling sensation of the _Frigus _charm – a cooling spell used to relieve the pain of substantial burns - casted upon her heated flesh.

_Was I enveloped by flames? _Hermione thought to herself before she was cut off by another voice.

"_Do you believe that it may be related to the unidentified trace of __Magus __found within her blood sample?" _This one was feminie yet stern, sounding relatively youthful based on tone.

"_It seems most likely, Epona. But until she is stable enough to run tests, we will not know." _

Hermione's eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly at the florescent lighting lining the white ceiling. She coughed weakly, her ears buzzing.

"_Call Mr Potter and Mr Weasley for me please, Epona."_

_Where am I? _She thought.

Suddenly, brown eyes – the colour of dark chocolate – framed by dark lashes filled her vision.

"Miss Granger? Can you hear me? Can feel this?" A middle aged Mediwizard asked the war hero, brows meeting in concentration. Hermione felt gentle probing at her legs and she nodded, slowly allowing her eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room.

"Where am I?" She questioned, voice cracking from disuse. Hesitantly, Hermione cracked her eyes open a little wider. She was currently lying within a hospital bed surrounded by four cream walls. Mediwitches rushed in and out of her room, some of them tracing star shapes in the air with their wands above certain parts of her body. Flowers, cards and trinkets overflowed the shelves on the walls, spilling onto the little wooden beside table. The bite of antibacterial potions filled her nostrils, forcing her to sneeze suddenly. Her body protested in acute pain, making Hermione gasp. The healer frowned, gently yet firmly forcing Hermione to lie back down as she attempted to sit up.

"Please, Miss Granger. Your body is under quite a lot of stress – you must let it heal as we can only do so much."

Hermione stared up at the man, confused and a little frightened. The sun filtering in from the window illuminated the creases by his eyes. Hermione imagined him to be only a few years younger than her own father – six years at most.

"Where am I?" Hermione repeated, voice raspy.

The Healer sighed. "You're currently situated in a private room upon the fourth floor of St. Mungos - the unidentified spell damage ward. I am Healer Pummell, head Mediwizard of fourth floor. Miss Granger, on the eve of the battle you were hit by an unidentified curse, leaving behind unknown traces of _Magus _within your blood."

Hermione felt her body tremble as the information rushed through her. Her heart began to beat faster. _Unknown __Magus __in my blood? _

"This has -"

The healer was cut off suddenly by shouting masculine voices, seemingly coming from the corridor opposite Hermione's room.

"_Hermione!" _Harry's frantic voice sounded from the threshold. Her best friend, hair as messy as always, then barged into the space, darting around a pretty Mediwitch without a second glance. Ron, an expression of twin joy and fear painted across his face, came bounding in behind Harry with Ginny in tow.

"Hermione! Oh, thank Merlin – you're alright!" Ron dashed over towards Hermione, wrapping his arms around her. Harry tightly grasped Hermione's hand within his, and Ginny held onto her boyfriend, tears trailing down her cheeks. Hermione hoped that Ron didn't feel her flinch when he squeezed a particularly tender spot on her side.

"I am so glad you're alright," Ron mumbled into her neck. He smelt of the cinnamon toast he so loved to eat for breakfast. He smelt familiar – like home. She glanced up at Harry who shot her a watery smile, pulling Ginny closer to his side.

"We're so glad you're back." Harry's voice cracked at the end and he swallowed his tears. Hermione's own eyes began to water.

"I was never really gone – I think my body reached the point where it demanded a long deserved nap from all of those late night N.E.W.T study sessions." she joked back, hoping to lighten the mood.

Ron barked out a laugh into her neck, hiccupping slightly. "Three weeks without your know-it-all comments made me realise how bloody horrible it is without you around."

Hermione ignored Ron's declaration, her mind and body freezing.

_Three weeks?_

"I was in a coma for three weeks?" She whispered, voice barely audible.

The healer's deep sigh interrupted Ron's impending response. "We have not been able to identify the traces of _Magus _ within your blood, Miss Granger. As a result, we do not know how your body will react to standard cure methods."

Ron's eyes flickered between Hermione's and the Healer's. "_Magus ? _What are you-?"

The Healer pursed his lips, trying to find the words to best describe the predicament. "– _Magus _comes from the Latin word for _magician," _he began. _ "_Medieval and dated, of course, but healing theory still uses the term. Each living thing that has magic running through their life stream possesses their own, individual magical imprint - so to speak. We all weave magic differently. Sometimes, our _Internum __Magus __ – _our internal magic – can mix with another person or creature. This can be through blood, an especially powerful collision of curses, special ceremonies…"

Harry frowned. "I touched Ginny's open wound with my own bloodied hand during the battle when I pushed her out of the way of a falling boulder. Does that mean –"

The healer shook his head, sighing a little.

"Perhaps I was not clear. When I say blood exchange, I am referring to particular magic bound ceremonies. For example, in earlier times, pureblood witches and wizards sealed their oath of marriage with a blood pledge."

Hermione slowly began to tune out. _Blood exchange? _

"They cut their right palms and pressed their own against their partner's. An especially powerful blood incantation would then seal them in an irreversible bond preventing them to physically cheat on one another. They may fall out of love, but they could not reproduce or initiate sexual relations with another witch or wizard without feeling pain that mirrored a Cruciatus curse."

Ginny crinkled her nose, lips pursed in disgust. "That sounds horrible."

The healer shrugged. "Influential pureblood families wanted to keep their lines pure." The healer paused, seemingly trying to figure out an internal mystery. "They ignored the consequences of such small gene pools. Alas, what was the life of an innocent squib child in comparison to family prestige?" The healer sighed once more, shaking his head. Her turned back to face Hermione, breaking her out from her trance.

"As I was previously saying, Miss Granger. An unidentified _Magus _has mixed with your own. Often, this would not be a problem – the external essence would simply be expelled by your own over time. If you were infected by a creature which carries a _magicales infectio_ – a magical viral infection – such as a werewolf, the invading _Magus _would them assimilate into your own body. It would not fade over time, but the two opposing _Magus __would_ not merge into one. It would be somewhat manageable as both _Magus __would_ not be linked."

Here, the healer paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He pulled off his mouth mask, shooting Hermione a concerned look.

"I will be frank, Miss Granger. The traces of external _Magus _found within your blood suggest that it has begun to merge with your own. Initially, we believed the invading _Magus _to be of a viral nature. After several attempts, we realised our common methods were putting your life in further danger. We could not simply spell away your considerable increase in body temperature. By doing this, your own internal _Magus _reacted against your body. Your body temperature rose to exceeding levels, nearly cooking you from the inside."

Ginny gasped. "W-what are you…?"

Hermione stared up at the healer, eyes once again unfocused. She felt herself shaking and she couldn't stop. She heard Ron raise his voice suddenly, Harry's own voice raising in rebuttal. Hermione didn't pay attention. She kept her gaze focused on the healer's face, now lined and ever serious.

"_Ron, he's trying to explain…"_

"_Harry, she almost died! Don't you…"_

"_Of course I do! I love her like a…"_

"_Ron, stop being a git…..just trying…."_

"…_.shut up!"_

"_Don't talk to her like that!" _

Hermione glanced down at her shaking hands, frowning at her sudden sense of detachment from her own body. "During the battle, my _Magus _somehow mixed with someone or _something _else's _Magus . _Over the past three weeks, the external presence has been increasing fractionally. Rather than existing on its own, the _Magus _has begun to merge with my own. This means that you are unable to expel the external _Magus _from my body or even treat it." Hermione listed in a distant voice, mind racing miles in front of her. "Is this all correct?"

The shouting came to a halt. Silence filled the room. The healer nodded, expression solemn.

Hermione frowned. "If this is the case, then why – apart from the burning pain of the physical wounds and the throbbing of the bruises – do I feel ok?" The brunette shook her slightly matted mane, rubbing her temple in confusion. "I actually haven't felt this well-rested in a long time…" she admitted more to herself than anyone else. Ginny rushed forward, pushing Ron out of the way – ignoring his cry of protest. Ginny gripped Hermione's hand, keeping her gaze glued on the older healer.

A strange expression appeared on the healer's face. He began to fiddle with the strings of his mouth mask. "That is the most curious facet of your case, Ms Granger," he began. "The majority of unidentified cases result in permanent bodily or mental damage – if not magical damage. It is not unusual for such cases to end fatally, either."

The healer stared Hermione in the eyes, pressing his lips together – stalling for the appropriate wording.

"In your case, Ms Granger," he began slowly, "the external _Magus _does not seem to be _attacking _your own. It seems merging with it, becoming a protective shield to anything it believes to be an 'enemy', per say."

Hermione sighed, suddenly tired. "You have already said that, Healer Pummell. I just want to -"

"-I am afraid that the _Magus _has not only began to merge with your own, Miss Granger. In these early stages, I believe that it is plausible to suggest that the external _Magus _has instigated the early stages of a hybrid _Mutatio Magicales."_

Hermione gasped, eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other, desperately trying to quell the panic bubbling within her.

_No, _she pleaded with herself. _Please, this can't be. This cannot be. It must be a mistake. A huge mistake. _

Ron's gaze flickered between Hermione and the Healer. His face began to redden, his temper rising in being denied information. He glanced at Harry, eyes filled with panic.

"What are they on about?"

Healer Pummell bent down to pick up his fallen folder off of the hospital floor. His bones creaked slightly when he rose back up.

"Her magic is potentially undergoing a categorical transformation, Mr Weasley. According to the tests we were able to carry out thus far, Hermione's magical properties are being altered by the alien _Magus _." His words were woven with undertones of gravity.

Harry rubbed his forehead before resorting back to tapping his wand against his hip – a nervous habit he had picked up in his early childhood. "Any chance you can explain this without the medical jargon, by any chance?" he grounded out. The Mediwizard was used to confused and frightened patients and loved ones, so he answered without acknowledging the war heroes' rudeness.

"Miss Granger is a Homosapien – a human being. Her base magic is like every other human's. This alien _Magus _ is _changing _her base magic into a hybrid form. For argument's sake, her magic source now comes from the human base magic– wizard magic – and house elf magic."

Silence filled the room. Hermione felt her stomach roll.

"HERMIONE IS HALF HOUSE ELF NOW?" Ron shouted, voice a mixture of shock and anger.

If Hermione did not want to roll into foetal position and start sobbing, she would've found the exchange quite hilarious.

Healer Pummell shot Ron an aggravated look. "No, Mr Weasley. Hermione is not half house elf now." He paused, now lost for words. He glanced at Hermione, taking in her fragile state. His voice grew softer.

"We do not know what is causing this change within you, Miss Granger – in fact, we are not one hundred percent sure _if _your magic is in fact transforming. In these stages, I feel confident when I say that the alien _Magus _does not seem to want to take possession of your body. I do not believe it wants to harm you, either." The healer smiled slightly, a tinge of burning curiosity glinting within his eyes.

"If anything, it seems to want to _protect _you."

Hermione swallowed, nodding slowly. She felt Ginny's hand tighten on her own.

Healer Pummell mirrored Hermione's nodding before turning to face the three other occupants within the room. "I believe we cannot procrastinate any longer, ladies and gentleman. Ms Warburton, the potions mistress of the hospital, must meet with Hermione in order to make sure she administers the correct dosage of scar prevention potions. You may all come back at two o'clock. It was a pleasure meeting you all."

Ignoring Ginny, Ron and Harry's protests, the Mediwizard ushered the trio outside into the corridor – but not before Ron placed a light kiss on the palm of Hermione's hand.

"We'll see you soon, 'Mione." Harry grinned, unsuccessfully masking his worry behind his black fringe.

As soon as the hospital door closed shut, Hermione felt herself sink back into the bed. She felt like she had been up for hours, when in reality, it was most likely close to three quarters of one. Deciding that now was not the time to worry about her predicament – especially when she did not have access to a library of information – Hermione shut her eyes and hoped to drift off to sleep. When she was toeing the shadowy brink of temporary darkness, Hermione faintly registered the dull throbbing within her palm – seemingly in the exact spot that Ron had kissed her.

_Strange,_ she thought absently.

That was the last thing that crossed her mind before she dived into the subconscious world of her dreams.

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**A.N.: I hope you liked this chapter. Please review and let me know what you think! **


	3. Chapter 3

**I know that it has been _forever _since I last updated, but I do hope that you like this chapter. Please let me know what you think and whether you're enjoying the story so far! **

* * *

Hermione rolled over irritability, shielding her eyes from the blaring green light of the _Witchstone_ sitting on her bedside table. She could not decide what was worse: the incessant buzz of the machines during her overnight stay at the children's hospital when she was ten years old that stemmed from her curious misadventure involving a tree, or this _blinding, _neon green light. The healers ignored her complaints regarding the light; '_It helps us accurately monitor your magus levels, Miss Granger. We apologise, but you must bear the annoyance.' _Indeed, Hermione would be able to 'bear the annoyance' – if only they granted her the small luxury of black coffee with three sugars! But, alas, it was not in the cards for the war hero. '_Miss Granger,' _they cautioned, '_the caffeine coursing through your blood will interfere with our readings. We cannot have that during the observation stage we are currently progressing though.' _Hermione understood the issues that were raised by her requests, but _Merlin! _She had been stuck in hospital for the past three weeks! She was beyond the point of simply feeling restless – Hermione felt like a caged bird. It did not help matters that the Mediwitches and Wizards were no closer to discovering the source of her _Magus _problem.

Day by day for a week and a half, the healers documented the assimilation of the foreign magus within her body. Unknowingly to all, day by day, Hermione was pulled further and further away from her initial path in life. Physically, the changes were a mix of astonishing and somewhat surprising. The healers noted improved reflexes; Hermione's damaged hearing was repaired in a month rather than five. Her substantial bruising faded in a matter of days. Then, there were little things – things that Hermione kept to herself. Her sense of taste increased; many foods were too salty. Her sense of smell became so poignant that she regularly was forced to throw out the flowers that Ron brought to her room every week; their scent sweet, like rotting apples. Hermione also noticed her body's reaction to Ron's touch; tingling – not painful but not pleasant, either. This was not a constant occurrence, but she had noticed the growing trend. Hermione also found herself to be more irritable than usual, her eyes continually straying towards her glass window. She found herself snapping at Ron with an aggressiveness that she barely kept in check. At times, even Harry's presence put her on edge. She trusted the two men with her life, but there was something…_off. _

"Oh, Hermione! You're awake!"

The war hero blinked, a strange, prickly sensation covering her body like an intricate net of stinging leaves. Even before rolling over, Hermione knew whom that voice belonged. A war raged on within her; her heart warmed at Ron's presence, but her body was placed on high alert. _It is going to be one of 'those' days, I suppose, _Hermione thought.

She pushed herself into sitting position, allowing her to observe Ron placing a bouquet of tulips – a kaleidoscope of purples, oranges, pinks and yellows – in a large clear vase adjacent to the bathroom. He wore dark jeans and his much-loved _Chudley Cannons _T-shirt underneath a thin blue jacket. The winter months were receding and the warmth of spring was blooming across the bloodstained soil of the war. Even though the mornings will still crisp, it seemed that many opted to wear lighter clothing – prematurely embracing the motif of new life that the season of spring brought about.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I _have _to tell the cleaners to stop throwing out the flowers before they even open! I bet you never even get to see them bloom..."

Hermione glanced away, making a conscious effort not to fiddle with her hair in nervousness. "Don't concern yourself, Ron. I'll let them know." She received a happy grin in response – something that would have made her rejoice in happiness if it not were for the strange, incomprehensible sense of guilt that settled within her heart. Ron sunk into the plush chair beside Hermione's bed and opened the plastic bag he had dropped beside the door prior to fixing the flowers. The aroma of vanilla, sugar and – _Dear Merlin – _black coffee wafted towards her. Ron chuckled at her euphoric expression, handing her the disposable mug.

"Apparently you've been complaining quite a bit about the lack of coffee, so I remembered to feed your addiction of long blacks."

Hermione breathed in the bitter scent of the roasted beans, revelling in its nutty notes – something that she had never noticed before. Before she took a sip, she paused. "Ugh," she groaned, "I shouldn't be drinking this – the healers said it affects their readings…" She thrust the mug towards Ron in reluctant submission.

Ron rolled his eyes, pushing the coffee back towards her. "You're leaving in a few days, 'Mione. Thank Merlin nothing is wrong with you. According to tests the Mediwizards were doing, your Magus temporarily went berserk in order to protect you." He leaned over Hermione's body, gently tucking a stand of hair behind her ear. The action was so tender, Hermione once again felt horribly guilty. She wanted nothing more but to lean into his touch, but something was stopping her. She had no idea what.

"Sometimes, that happens with Muggleborns. Without all the weird interbreeding that usually happens in Pureblood families, your bodies are programmed to be tougher – stronger. Your Magus goes on high alert in order to protect you."

Hermione bit her lip, staring into the dark brown depths of her coffee mug. "But the healers said that there was a foreign magus _within _me -"

Ron shook his head, grasping her hand in his. "It was a theory, 'Mione. There is no proof. Nothing bad has happened to you so far – sure, your body underwent some accelerated healing processes, but the healers believe that it is just your overactive Magus."

Hermione felt the corners of her lips twitch up in a tiny smile. Ron had seemed to take a vested interest in her health, which made sense seeing as she was his…_girlfriend. _Well, Hermione supposed she was. It was never officially announced, but everyone – including herself – had assumed so. To the point, Ron had become the first person the healers would speak to other than Hermione. He was now able to follow the Mediwizard jargon along with Hermione. Sometimes, it felt like he knew _more _than Hermione did herself.

That left her feeling quite uncomfortable, admittedly.

"It was a miscalculation, Hermione. Everyone was worried – you were a _war hero _whose life was on the Healer's hands. The theory made sense, but there is no proof." He grinned, "You're not sprouting house elf ears or vampire fangs, so it's safe to say you're the same Hermione as you have always been."

She sighed. "That's the _point, _Ron! There is _no _proof! What happens if some foreign Magus has mixed with mine, making me a ticking time bomb? I could put people in danger! Imagine how I would feel if I hurt _you, _or Harry or my parents!" Hermione rubbed her eyes with her free hand, feeling the stinging sensation of tears prickling at the back of her throat. Ron's large, warm hands covered hers. When she opened her eyes, Hermione's stare was met with Ron's – his blue eyes reminding her of summer skies and soft cotton clouds.

"You're _not _a danger, Hermione," he grounded. "You're the bravest, smartest, nicest girl I have ever known." Hermione ignored the prickling sensation in her hands that were covered by his. She refused to let something like that take away from the sincere kindness of his words and actions.

"And do you know what? Even if there _is _some strange Magus within you, I am _thankful _for it! It fought for your life when no one else could! It kept you alive when I couldn't protect you…" he trailed off, redness warming his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

Hermione felt herself blush. "I don't need you to protect me, Ron." She uttered softly. The boy in question rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his whole face going red in embarrassment.

"Yeah, well…" He sighed, licking his lips. He caught Hermione's gaze once more, seemingly having gathered courage. He gripped Hermione's hand once more. "But I want to, Hermione. You are more than just a best friend to me, Hermione. I -"

Hermione felt a panic rise deep within her. Her heart beat loudly like large drums in her chest. She felt a drop of sweat slide down her spine, flattening when it reached the small of her back. Her lips moved before she could process what she was going to say.

"I know," she interrupted, nodding. "Yes, I know," She repeated once more quietly in response to Ron's expression that was a mixture of hope and dubiousness.

An elongated moment of silence filled the room, to which Ron awkwardly filled by pushing the mug of coffee back towards Hermione.

"Just drink it, Hermione. You'll be out of here in a few days."

* * *

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

* * *

The cellar was dark, illuminated only by the hanging chandeliers of winding iron and gold. Large, thick panels of cherry wood covered the south wall, creating space for the numerous bottles of antique vintage wine. Despite the enchanted entry that left the cellar without doors, a frigid, winter breeze shifted through the great hall. Wrought iron gates created an accessible barrier between the main space and little pickpockets of rooms; mainly rooms filled with shelves of dusty old scrolls and brittle tome, many of which disintegrated with even a feather light touch – as blonde discovered. An ancient wooden table stretched the length of the main hall within the cellar, dusty chairs surrounding it. A small group of ragged, pale men and women sat silently around the table. The flickering light of the melting candelabras casting shadows across their haggard faces. The blonde-haired man routinely avoided them. Their expressions of exhaustion and weary desperation were a constant catalyst of disgust and confusion within him. How these prominent faces of pureblood aristocracy become nothing more than mere hunted rats? Forced to hide beneath the depths of the earth, happy to rot away in darkness rather than even to _hope _for the warmth of the sun once more. Why did he and his family find themselves buried beneath the earth whilst filthy _Mudbloods _embraced a new world? Why was his fate tainted by the scent of rot and decay?

Silently, he made his way towards the furthest wrought iron gate, running his hands through his brittle, oily hair in frustration – a habit he had developed in his caged confinement. He studiously ignored the shifting of his kin, refusing to glance at his prematurely wrinkled face, his matted hair, the map of scars across his left cheek. The man shifted slightly in his seat, ignoring the gentle, smaller hand placed on top of his – a warning.

"Son…" The older man's voice, like his hair, was brittle – breaking from disuse. The blonde haired man paused gracefully, refusing even to turn to face his father.

"I thought I told you to refrain from talking to me, old man." His voice was deathly quiet – a whisper that sounded loud within the muted space of the cellar.

His father blanched and the woman beside him gasped – a mere intake of breath.

"Darling, _please…" _Her voice trailed off desperately. Silence filled the room once more. Finally, the man spoke once more. "Please keep to your promise," he said, before continuing on the path towards the furthest alcove. The hall grew darker, shadows casting horrendous shapes along the wooden panels. The man was not frightened, however. He had faced greater horrors than mere shadows. Reaching the wrought iron gate, he sighed. Inside, he could see the outline of a body leaning against one of the bookshelves. His tall, athletic frame was a familiar sight – strangely comforting. But then again, anything would be comforting in a place such as this.

The blonde-haired person flopped onto the dusty divan, its elaborate woodwork digging uncomfortably into his spine. He threw a forearm over his eyes.

"If we ever leave this God forsaken place, I will never touch another bottle of wine again – no matter how expensive it may be." A sardonic, bitter tone coloured the blonde man's declaration. The other man merely hummed in response, his crystal eyes glued to the book in his hands. The blonde felt a bubble of annoyance grow within him.

"Apparently Cross has found a loophole for our case."

Once again, his companion provided him with only a hum of response.

"My father is currently fucking your mother – he just asked me if I would like to join in on the fun. He was quite insistent which is why I took so long to arrive." The blonde-haired man uncovered his eyes, glancing towards the other man, curious to see his reaction.

The man's eyes did not stray from his tome, but his quiet, somewhat lyrical baritone voice filled the room. "Please refrain from swearing, Draco. It's highly uncivilised of you."

"So you _were _listening," he deducted before covering his eyes once more. "No matter, I suppose," He sighed, "If I _am _acting uncivilised. Take a look around you – we are nothing more than _rats, _being hunted by the soldiers of 'good.'"

An elongated moment of silence filled the space, to which the man with the dark hair was grateful. Blaise knew, however, that all good things must end. Draco was becoming increasingly restless within the cellar – which was understandable. Blaise knew of his punishment for not murdering Professor Dumbledore by his own hand. Voldemort had been considerably tame with Draco's punishment: fifteen days enclosed within a cellar, barely big enough for Draco to be able to stand in or stretch his feet out. A piece of bread and a glass of water was allowed each day, but that was all. Draco had developed a strong case of claustrophobia as a result, preferring large, open spaces full of light in comparison to dark, underground rooms. This period of hiding was particularly difficult for him.

"What aggravates me the most out of this whole situation is that _Voldemort –_ that useless piece of shit – fucking _died, _leaving _us _to hide like animals whilst thousands of stupid _Mudbloods _and blood traitors roam the earth without a care in the world!" Draco's voice was sharp and bitter – a fury and masked confusion brewed beneath his cruel words. Blaise tensed, blood pumping through his body like a river.

"Keep your filth to yourself, Malfoy. I may bear your cruel, idle comments – but I will not abide careless comments that will our futures in jeopardy. Learn to school your animalistic thoughts, Draco. We are welcoming a new world."

His voice was quiet when he responded – calm – but Draco could decipher the poignant warning behind his words. Blaise's gaze was sharp, and Draco saw a sea of blood within his blue eyes. The blonde-haired man swallowed before nodding once.

"This change of global understanding – I cannot understand it, Zabini," Draco suddenly grounded out. He sprung up in his seat, running his hands through his hair. "How can I? How do you expect me to? It was barely five months ago that you _yourself _viewed Muggleborns as a waste of space! You wanted nothing more than to embrace a pure world!"

Zabini sighed; snapping shut the book grasped between his hands. "I have always been indifferent towards Muggleborns, Draco. In my life, they were merely people who were hated by many in our Wizarding community. I never opposed their existence, but neither did I campaign for their rights."

Draco's hands tightened into fists at his side. He sprung up, marching towards Blaise in anger. "Indifference is not what you're displaying now, Blaise! You snap at the word 'Mudblood!' How can I accept this new mentality when you have not given me any indication from where or what it stemmed from?"

Blaise stared at Draco with a bored expression painted across his face. He turned towards the bookshelf to file the tome away before seating himself upon the divan.

"The time is not yet right for me to explain everything. You are not ready – neither are the other members involved." Blaise gazed down at his hands, riddled with white scars to which he liked to think made the shape of a star. "In fact," he softly uttered, "I do not think I am ready myself…"

Draco groaned in frustration. "Stop hiding things from me, Zabini! Tell me what is going on!"

Blaise glanced up at the blonde haired boy before turning away.

"All in good time, Draco."

* * *

**Please let me know what you think! **


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